


Not Her Sam

by Yuval25



Category: Supernatural
Genre: But also, F/M, Fix-It, Fluff and Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Older Dean, Older Dean/Older Sam, Older Sam, POV Jessica Moore, Slash, Time Travel, Time Travel Fix-It, Wincest - Freeform, jess/sam - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 10:53:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10095062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yuval25/pseuds/Yuval25
Summary: "Oh," Sam says, and it's notherSam, it's the other Sam, the older one, the broken one.This Sam has not been hers for twelve years.Basically, Future Dean goes back in time to change the future and saves Jess. Future Sam tags along unexpectedly. And Jess is okay. No, seriously. She'sfine.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Saving People](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3937051) by [Yalu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yalu/pseuds/Yalu). 



> So that's... something.  
> Hope you enjoy. Please share your thoughts :)

Jess wakes up to a broken version of Sam's screams sometime after midnight. Her heart immediately attempts to lurch out of her chest and her head snaps to look at the left side of the bed where Sam, who turns out not to be the source of the heart-breaking sound, is stumbling into a crouching position on the floor and unhinging a fucking rifle from under the bed with a click without hesitation, like he knew it was there, like it's _normal_ it was there.

She stares, slack-jawed, at the sight of her boyfriend handling the weapon with ease, practiced hands checking then loading the firearm, hair ruffled like he'd been fucking someone roughly and eyes darting over the room they're using for the time being – until they get their bearings and recover from that demon attack – like he's waiting for something to jump at them.

The screams dissolve into anguished sobs in the room next to theirs and Jess knows where they're coming from. They are, as she had first thought, coming from Sam. Just not _her_ Sam.

Jess sighs and stands up, adjusting her shorts where they'd gotten pushed up the curve of her waist like they'd had every intention of becoming a shirt – she _has_ to get new pajama bottoms, even if Sam _does_ seem to like the way the damn thing gets wedged between her butt cheeks – and spares a brief glance down her shirt to make sure nothing is perking obscenely, before she follows Sam out of the room.

She catches up with him in the kitchen, as he's pouring himself a glass of water, rifle leaning on the counter beside him. She will never get used to the casual way they handle weapons. They treat guns and knives and she doesn't know what other shit they've got stuffed and rattling in that damn duffle of theirs the same way they treat mobile phones and jackets. Like it's a part of them. Jess doesn't know if that thought calms her down – because you can't get much safer than hanging around experienced defenders – or freaks her out – because Sam had always found some excuse for why she shouldn't look under their bed back at the now charred apartment and what if she had been sleeping _on top of a loaded gun?_ – but it's definitely something to think about. Later on. When she doesn't feel like she's about to throw up every time someone mentions a demon (god, _Brady_ ).

Sam takes a gulp of the water and hands her the glass. She finishes the rest. He picks up the cold water bottle and motions at the glass. She nods in thanks, and he pours the rest of the water into the glass. She drinks greedily while Sam fills the bottle with water from the tap and puts it back in the refrigerator.

"All's clear, then?" she feels obliged to ask, hesitant in a way because if there's some monster wreaking havoc in the house, this stranger's house, she probably doesn't want to know. It's probably Ariel the Little Mermaid come to kill them all in their sleep with her poisonous fins or something. Jess has abandoned all hope that things will ever be normal again (Jesus, _Brady_ ).

"Oh," Sam says, and it's not _her_ Sam, it's the other Sam, the older one, the broken one.

He slumps into the kitchen, shoulders curled protectively around himself and gaze unfocused, like he's still seeing whatever horrors he's been dreaming of behind his eyelids.

"You… I woke you. Sorry," Sam winces, looking fragile and tall and aged, and Jess's breath gets stuck in her throat.

"It's alright," Jess says, because Sam, _her_ Sam, doesn't seem to want to speak to his older self. "Are you okay?"

Dean, older Dean, _not-her-Sam_ 's Dean, appears behind Sam's shoulder, a hand rising to cup the back of his neck. Sam's head drops a little and he closes his eyes. Jess watches the way he gives himself over to the touch, and remembers all the times _her_ Sam had rubbed a hand on the back of his neck, like he's used to someone's hand there, and she finally understands. This Sam and her Sam are different in a lot of ways, but still the same so much that it hurts to look at him, hurts to see any version of Sam in so much pain, so much misery.

"I'm fine, Jess," his voice hitches on her name, but she doesn't mind. She can't imagine going through what he's gone through. If she ever lost Sam, she thinks she'd be far, far worse.

She thinks back to yesterday afternoon, when Sam, not her Sam, had driven a rusted Honda right up to this-guy-they're-staying-at's gravel yard and screeched to a halt, folding long limbs out of the low vehicle and slamming the driver side's door shut behind him with so much force that the car had wobbled a bit. He'd seemed furious, teeth bared and hands fisted, and older Dean had jumped out of his chair, making it fall backwards and making the guy-whose-place-they're-staying-at mutter colorful adjectives under his breath. Older Dean had sprinted out to meet the man, hands held in front of him, open-palmed in surrender. The guy hadn't so much as paused in his steps and had collided with older Dean fist-first, sending him flying into the gravel and releasing a series of growled half-words before yanking older Dean off the ground and into his arms, burying his head in older Dean's neck and clenching his hands on the back of older Dean's hoodie as he sobbed, shoulders shaking as older Dean weaved fingers repeatedly through _not-her-Sam_ 's hair and murmured in his ear.

She remembers when he'd first caught sight of Jess, mere seconds after stepping through the door. He'd stopped, rigid, on the edge of the kitchen where they'd all sat – well, all but her Sam, who had been standing protectively in front of Jess with a knife in his hands – and his eyes had grown wide, so wide, as he stared at Jess in open shock.

Jess herself had been frozen, mesmerized and mortified by the Sam-not-Sam in front of her. It was the broken way he'd said, " _Jess_ ," that had snapped her out of it, the way his eyes had grown shiny with unshed tears and his shoulders had begun to quiver like he was freezing cold.

Older Dean had tugged him up the stairs before more words could be exchanged, leaving Jess feeling unbalanced and Sam still standing protectively, threateningly, between her and what had then been an empty entrance hall. The-guy-whose-place-they're-staying-at had grunted a few more choice words before continuing where he'd left off, stabbing pieces of chicken with his fork like they'd come after him if he didn't do a confirmation of death. Which, for all that Jess knows, could be an actual thing.

This is the second time Jess sees not-her-Sam, and it's not getting any easier, she'll tell you that.

Older Dean opens the fridge and bends to look inside. He pulls out the same bottle of water her Sam just filled, and Jess blurts, "It's warm," before she can stop herself.

Older Dean glances at her briefly before putting the bottle back, making bottles rattle in the refrigerator with the way he's shoved the not-cold bottle of water inside, and he pulls out a new, perspiring one.

He hands it to not-her-Sam, who uncaps it and drinks the water in monstrous gulps straight from the bottle.

Not-her-Sam finishes the water in about five seconds, wiping his mouth on the sleeve of his ratty, stretched-out shirt, and hands it back to older Dean to fill, accepting the second bottle of water that older Dean produces without complaint and downs that, too.

There's an awkward silence that stretches too long for Jess's taste, and she shuffles back until her back touches Sam's chest. He immediately wraps an arm around her middle, pulling her closer, and she sighs contently, bringing her hand to lay on top of Sam's, tangling their fingers together.

Not-her-Sam's eyes are locked on their interlocked hands, something like desperation in his gaze, and she feels kind of guilty all of a sudden. If she'd lost Sam, lost him terribly and suddenly and with things left unsaid, she wouldn't want to see him all close and personal with anyone, not even – especially not – her younger, happier, undamaged self. The bitch. She'd rip her hair out. Seriously. Sam is _hers_. Well, one of them. The other one…

Not-her-Sam turns to look at older Dean, biting his lip and pleading with his eyes like he's asking older Dean to make everything magically alright again. And maybe he is. Maybe he thinks his big brother can make the hurt vanish, the pain go away, mend the broken pieces of not-her-Sam's heart if he just tries hard enough, plasters himself to his big brother's side tight enough, hides his face in his big brother's neck long enough for it to happen.

Older Dean, for his part, only shoves the newly-refilled bottles back into the refrigerator and runs a hand through his little brother's hair, pausing at the back of his head to drag him closer, pull his head into the junction of Dean's neck and shoulder.

"S'okay, Sammy," he murmurs into his little brother's hair.

Jess feels dizzy. Seeing Sam, not _her_ Sam, but still _a_ Sam, so emotionally wrecked makes her dizzy. It also makes her want to break everything within reach. It makes her want to pull her hair out. Makes her want to scream. _Who_ _did this to her Sam?_ But no, not _her_ Sam. This Sam has not been hers for twelve years. She wonders, not for the first time, if he still thinks of her as his Jess. His Jess had burned on the ceiling of their apartment twelve years ago. Or maybe it's a little over a week ago. The time travel thing kind of messes with her head. But his Jess is her, a little over a week ago. Not enough time have passed to make them look, sound, or _be_ different, really.

"What's going on here?" asks Dean, the real Dean, the younger Dean, from the doorway. He is wearing a tattered shirt, cut off at the collar, and a pair of black boxers.

"Nightmare," not-her-Sam answers, face still hidden as he curls himself further around older Dean.

"Yeah, I kind of figured. But why the secret midnight meeting? Y' _all_ got nightmares?"

Jess thinks he sounds kind of grouchy. She wonders if he feels left out.

Older Dean glares at his younger counterpart. "Shove it, kid." He turns to his Sam. "C'mon, Sammy, up we go."

He starts leading his Sam out of the kitchen, but pauses when his Sam untangles himself from older Dean.

"Wait, Dean-"

"Wha'cha doin', Sammy? Let's go," older Dean urges, trying to catch his Sam's hand to drag him the rest of the way.

"Dean, he's _you_ ," not-her-Sam says, sidestepping older Dean's attempts to grab him, and then wraps an arm around the younger, real Dean, dropping a kiss on the crown of his head. Young Dean tenses, looking straight ahead unblinking. "G'night, Dean." Not-her-Sam squeezes young Dean once, breathing in deeply, and then lets him go and turns to his brother, nodding.

Older Dean rolls his eyes and wraps an arm around his Sam's waist, just like her Sam's arm is wrapped around Jess, and they disappear upstairs.

"Dude," Dean says, a faint pink hue to his cheeks and wide eyes looking at Sam. "What the hell? You turnin' mushy on me now?"

Sam frowns defensively. "How the fuck should I know? And you're not any better, man. 'Up we go'? What am I, five?"

Dean mumbles a "Bitch" and crouches down beside the refrigerator, pulling it open and peering at its contents. He pulls out a bottle of water.

"It's warm," Jess says.

Dean puts it back, and pulls out another.

"That, too."

"Damn it," Dean shoves it back, bottles rattling, exactly like his older counterpart had done. He pulls out a bottle that had been lying horizontally at the back of the fridge and doesn't bother with a glass.

"Wash it when you're done. I don't want to get herpes," Sam bites.

"Shove it, kid," Dean growls, again so much like his older self, and disappears up the stairs with the water.

Jess sighs. Well, this went wonderfully.

"Let's go back to sleep, Sam."

"I'm sorry," Sam rests his forehead on her shoulder. He places a soft kiss on her skin.

"It's okay."

It's not okay. But she's got her Sam with her, and as long as that fact remains, she has hope that it will, someday, be okay.

 

The morning passes without so much as a glimpse of the future folk. At some point during breakfast – scrambled eggs again, because that's all the-guy-whose-place-they're-staying-at seems to know how to make and Jess doesn't feel like intervening – she hears the pretty distinctive sound of gunshots and jumps, startled. Beside her, Sam tenses but relaxes almost immediately, like it was the suddenness of the noise that surprised him and not the fact that there are guns going off not a mile away from them.

Around noon, older Dean stumbles back into the house, clearing his throat and adjusting the sweat-soaked collar of his shirt, with his Sam in tow. Not-her-Sam is doing that cute thing where he's all 'I can't see you, so you can't see me either', avoiding her eyes , anyone's eyes really, as he and older Dean exchange a few words with the-guy-whose-place-they're-staying-at before they head upstairs.

They appear downstairs in time for lunch, skin flushed from the shower and looking refreshed. Older Sam is wearing flannel and jeans, and Jess is both amused and reassured that some things never change. That it's not a stranger sitting there with them at the table, avoiding her gaze – which she sort of understands, but still hurts – with determination she's used to seeing directed at books and pouting at the greasy food like it personally offends him. It's _Sam_.

After they take care of the dishes, both Deans, older Sam and the guy-whose-place-they're-staying-at (she has _got_ to catch his name sometime) shut themselves in one of the rooms down the hall to discuss the best course of action from here on out. When her Sam makes a move to join them, older Sam shakes his head with a sad smile and tells him firmly, "You're _out_. You got out. We'll tell you what you need to know, later. Right now, stay with her. Don't throw away everything you've built together."

The group stays there until dinner, which they eat in silence before returning to the room for more discussions of strategy.

Around ten-thirty Jess decides to call it a night. She tells Sam and he nods and follows her up the stairs. They fall onto bed together, exhausted. It's been a long week, for both of them.

 

Jess wakes up with an urgency her body immediately translates as the need to pee. She remembers dreaming about her and Sam and a bunch of blond, hazel-eyed children playing cowboys with real guns. It's not her Sam in the dream, though. It's other Sam. Older Sam. Which is fucked up, and should worry her, but is so minor in comparison to everything she's experienced in the last week or so, so she brushes it off to think about later.

At the moment, she pushes current Sam's head off her stomach where it's squishing her bladder, and sits up groggily. Sam makes an attempt to talk, but it comes out gurgled and she smiles affectionately, brushing his hair away from his closed eyes.

"Bathroom. Be right back," she promises in a quiet whisper and kisses his eyebrow. She straightens out her pants – little fuckers tried to reach her shoulders again – and tiptoes out the door.

Older Dean and Sam's room is on the way to the bathroom, so it's totally not her fault that she hears them. She's worried, that's what she is. That's why she puts her ear to the door after the first sound comes through. Just to make sure they're okay.

She knows what Sam sounds like when he's having sex. Has heard it countless of times up close. Has committed it to memory, has played it over and over again in her mind when Sam's been gone for too long and she had to take care of things herself. Little grunts and high, breathy moans. The occasional whimper. And that's what coming through the door right now. Which could only mean one thing. One too big and too mind-blowing thing. She balks, but crowds further against the door, trying to catch the rest. Maybe she's mistaken. This could be another nightmare, or something.

"Shh, shh, Sammy. You gotta be quiet. We gotta-"

A cut off moan. She imagines older Dean sealing a hand over older Sam's mouth to stifle it. She blushes a deep red when she realizes what she's hearing, what she's thinking, but that doesn't stop her. Sam is her boyfriend – the fact that _this_ Sam is not her boyfriend is just a minor detail – so this isn't, like, stalking or anything. It doesn't make her a pervert. Not at all.

"Sammy- _Fuck!_ "

Sam sobs inside the room, a tortured, pleasured sound, and Jess feels her body heating, her gut clenching.

"Shh, baby, c'mon-"

She steps away from the door, face red and ears burning, and rubs her tingling mouth. She can almost see what's going on inside that room, can imagine it in HD. She regrets not putting on a bra before she left the room, because now she feels a bit faint and too hot and she needs a glass of water, cool, blessed water to get rid of the urge to run back to her and Sam's temporary bedroom and jump him. Yeah, she needs that glass of water right fucking now. After she makes a pit stop at the bathroom, that is.

She relieves her bladder and washes her hands as quietly as possible, only her feet making faint scraping noises on the floor. She leaves the door open just a crack, and goes down the stairs, trying to avoid the creaking ones.

Sam is in the kitchen, and it takes her a moment to establish that he's not _her_ Sam. Flushed, relaxed and loose-limed, with that spark in his eyes and the hint of a smile at his lips, he looks years younger. Post-orgasmic Sam is pretty much her favorite thing in the whole world, because he gets cuddly and cute and purrs like a kitten when she scratches lightly at his scalp. This Sam seems to be no different, and she tones down the creepy manic grin that wants to spread on her face. She hopes it doesn't come across as gas.

Sam notices her and gives her a small, satiated smile, sipping water from the bottle he's got in his hands.

She produces her own bottle from the refrigerator, fetches a glass from the cabinet, and thinks of how strange it is that most of their meaningful encounters so far have been in the middle of the night, in the kitchen, drinking water. She makes her tone light and casual as she shuts the fridge, saying, "So, you and Dean, huh?"

Sam sputters. She pats him on the back sympathetically until he gets his choking under control, and he grates out a scandalized, " _Jess_ ," like he did not just have sex with his brother five minutes ago.

She laughs quietly and pulls out a chair – making sure the action doesn't make any noise – to sit across from him at the table.

"It's hot," she says, and watches as he turns bright red and ducks his head, shaking it from side to side. "What, guys are allowed to get off on the jelly twins getting it on, but girls can't enjoy a good bro-on-bro action?"

Sam looks up, gaping at her with wide, unbelieving eyes.

She chuckles.

"Are you serious?" he manages.

"As demonic possession," she deadpans.

He quirks the corner of his lips up. "It's good that you're making jokes about it. So you're really okay with… this?" he makes a generic hand gesture.

"This, as in you and your brother holding hands in the dark, or this, as in monsters are real and I should learn how to shoot?"

His face contorts into a hilarious mixture of outrage and disbelief. "Who said you gotta learn how to shoot?"

She licks a stray drop of water from her lip, lowering the glass back down. "The guy who owns this place. The one with the hat-"

"Bobby," Sam informs her.

"Yeah, him. God, it's like my brain is overflowing and refusing to sponge up any more information."

There is a minute of silence where neither of them says anything, just drinking water and thinking over things.

"Do you- You know now. You… About the whole… monster thing. Do you," Sam swallows and looks down. "I always wondered how she'd have reacted. Still do. I- I wanted to tell you, so much, Jess, I swear. But you- I gotta know, Jess, do you… forgive me? Him, do you forgive him?"

Jess watches Sam struggle with the words, watches him force them out despite how it must be causing him pain. Things left unsaid, missed chances… the lease she can do is give him closure.

"Of course I forgive you, Sam," she says, and she means it. "Of course I do."

"But if you'd died-" he bits his lip, holds back the sob. "If you'd died, would you-"

"Sam," she cuts him off, her tone demanding that he looks at her. He does, and she takes both of his hands in hers. His hands are slightly bigger than her Sam's, fingers more scarred and a bit longer, the nails recently trimmed, knuckles bruised and scraped in a few places. They're warm, and real. She hadn't expected them to be real. It makes something inside of her settle, to feel reality in addition to seeing it. She stomps on the urge to kiss his knuckles. That wouldn't help either of them. They're both coping. "Even if I had died, it still wouldn't have been your fault."

Sam makes a sound of disagreement, but she hushes him.

"I don't blame you."

"You should," Sam murmurs in self-hatred.

"Well, I don't. I blame the stupid demon asshole who killed Brady and used me to get to you. I blame fate, 'cause she's a bitch-"

"She really is."

"-who thinks we're all puppets on a string that she can play with just because she has power. I blame the fucking tooth fairy, 'cause for all I know she could be kidnapping little kids and pulling out their teeth when business gets slow. I blame the monsters, Sam. But not you. Never you."

He still looks unconvinced. "You don't know. That's why you're saying this. If you knew-"

"I know you had visions before Brady attacked me. You saw me die. But Dean, older Dean, he told Sam that there was nothing he could have done to stop Brady."

Sam still doesn't look completely reassured by the idea, but something in his shoulders relaxes and he meets her eyes again.

There's still residue of a blush on his cheeks, and he's still bright-eyed and glowing from the sex, and enough like her Sam in that moment that she feels bold enough to ask.

"Do you know if he's… my Sam, do you know if he and Dean would be into… y'know," she leaves off at that, certain that he would catch her meaning.

He does, mirth in his eyes and an amused chuckle bubbling from his lips. "I doubt it. I really doubt it. Dean and I… we've been through a lot. We lost each other half a dozen times, in half a dozen different ways, and that… that probably has a lot to do with how things… went. Sam, he'll probably think about it, but it won't do much for him at this point. Dean will outright deny it, overcompensate by being a man-whore and refuse to even acknowledge the possibility."

Jess's face falls. "Shame."

Sam laughs, a carefree sound that makes Jess's insides feel warm and fuzzy. She loves Sam's laugh.

"Plus, Sam will never agree to share you. He's a possessive sonofabitch," Sam mock-whispers.

Jess cracks a smile. "You know you've got the same personality traits, right?"

Sam's eyes sparkle. "Well, I'm a possessive sonofabitch, too. I think I glared away a few dozen girls who'd tried to hit on Dean. Half of them left in tears. One called the police. She thought I was some creepy stalker person."

Jess laughs at the story, shushing the tiny voice inside of her head calling her a creepy stalker person for eavesdropping on Sam having sex with his brother earlier.

"Is it hard for you," Jess asks when it turns quiet again. "to see me with Sam?"

He sighs heavily. "Yes," he tells her honestly, and she bites her lip. "But you're not mine. Not anymore. Not for a week or so. You're not my Jess."

She can see how it pains him to say it, and she wants to comfort him somehow, but she knows hugging him is out of question, not unless she wants to hurt him even more. She settles on placing a hand on his arm again.

"I love you," Sam suddenly says.

"Sam…" she exhales regretfully, because she loves him too, will love every version of Sam, from any point in time, but that's not helpful to either of them.

He shakes his head ruefully and gives her a sad, defeated smile. "I'll always love you. But as ironic as it sounds, I can't keep living in the past. I gotta look forward. I lost you. You're alive, but I lost you. I can't change that. I already changed things. But I can't change _that_. So I'm gonna focus on what I can change. I can save people, hunt things, make sure the future is nothing like I remember it."

"And you can be with Dean," Jess adds, because this is important, this is what keeps Sam afloat, keeps him functioning. She knows this, because she knows _Sam_ , even if he's older, taller, and got more scars inside and out. She _knows_ him.

"And I can be with Dean," Sam repeats, a soft smile on his lips.

Jess feels like they made some serious progress tonight. "I'm happy for you. I'm happy that you've got Dean."

Sam's smile widens. "Thanks. I- You have no idea how much that means to me, Jess. Thank you."

Sam brushes his hand on top of hers, and she fights down the blush. This older, charming, damaged Sam is doing more for her than he realizes.

"I should probably go back," Sam says, "Or Dean might come look for me, guns blazing."

He rises from the chair, and she follows suit. They take care of the bottles quickly before going back up the stairs together.

When Sam's got his hand on the door handle, Jess says quietly, "Tell Dean I said Hi."

Sam nods, an amused smile on his face.

"And don't be a stranger, Sam," she adds as she continues a few paces down the hall to her own door.

"You, too," Sam says before he goes into his shared room with Dean.

Jess smiles and goes in, closing the door behind her and feeling her way to the bed where Sam is lying with his eyes open, waiting for her. He wraps an arm around her waist and pulls her to his chest. She goes down willingly, humming when he kisses her.

"Long pee," he mutters against her lips.

"Drank a lot of water," she explains, biting into his lower lip. He groans and she throws one leg over his hips, straddling him.

"Mmm, what brought this on?" he asks between kisses, his large hands squeezing her butt through her pants.

"You," _from the future, playing out some super-hot gay fantasy with your brother_ , she adds mentally.

Sam moans when she grinds down on him, and she smiles secretively. She _has_ to try, or she'll go crazy wondering.

She cups Sam's cheeks in her hands and husks out, "Sammy," in as low a register as she can manage.

Sam's hips buck up involuntarily and he gasps, and Jess smirks victoriously, turned on beyond belief. Sam looks up at her with wide, startled eyes. She drops a kiss on his nose.

"This is so kinky," she whispers against his mouth, giggling. Sam flips them with a growl of mortified arousal, and she tasks herself with drawing those sweet little moans and punched out sobs she's heard Sam's older self make for Dean out of her own Sam by the end of the night.

Jess laughs and pulls his mouth back down.

 _'Won't do much for him' my ass_ , she thinks.

Even if he's no longer hers, she still knows Sam better than he knows himself.


End file.
